


Jidy of the Dhampirs

by Yuri_the_Eighth_Demoness



Series: Notebook of Originals [2]
Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M, Original Character(s), Original Fiction, Short Stories, Shorts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-11
Updated: 2018-06-10
Packaged: 2019-05-20 19:43:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14900789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yuri_the_Eighth_Demoness/pseuds/Yuri_the_Eighth_Demoness
Summary: Jidy lives the day-to-day grind in a city where morals had waned, trapped in the most deathly of circumstances, and haunted by past memories including the death of his mother, his exile from home...and a stranger with fire in his hair that may be the key to him remembering it all.





	1. What I had Forgotten

Satire looked back at the house on the hill shortly before disappearing into the morning. He was in argument with Chalice again, a discussion of their _old issues_...

Thiomo was already safely asleep in the cellars, tucked comfortably in his rather expensive bed among the silk and pillows, a Little Prince with too much wealth to spare and an eternity to pursue everything and anything he wished, never mind if it was contradictory to the morals of his _older brother_.

They’d visited a club that night, a most unusual _‘mortal’_ establishment lavished with pornography, where they had observed, drank, killed…but only because those who’d attacked them had chosen the fate. He’d even made an example to _the boy_ , tying this wretched _‘new-age vampire’_ —it called itself out of preference—on a pole and staying to watch the unearthly bonfire that ensued at dawn. They really don’t last that long. A few seconds, minutes…then they just fade into dust.

Dust. Wasn’t a satisfying lesson though. It reminded him of what they’d lost in _‘that’_ bonfire mortals did away with their ancient home so long ago. Thiomo wasn’t able to witness it. Chalice had been too _young_ then.

But _he_ remembered.

The day burned into Satire’s memory like the blazing sun...

A Dhampir, yes, that was what they were, but Chalice had not survived the tragedy unscathed. Satire had lost him to the centuries, to loneliness and sentiments and all other emotion. Would the same happen to Thiomo, the boy he now consorted, his current paramour though his loyalty remained to the older _prince_ still?

Satire turned to leave. Into the morning he will _pretend_ to be human, at least for some part of it until he chooses to close his eyes and lie down in the coffin he kept, the coffin he really did not need except as a reminder that he was, like the colour of his kin, the structure of his bones, an _unnatural_.  To rise again tonight where he was to execute a plan.

He had picked up a most unwitting discovery that could very well change Chalice; or regain in some manner, a bit of his old self back. The older _dhampir_ had found a _reason_ for the old Prince to open himself to feeling again…and memories. And maybe Satire will be forgiven by him for the things he had done. Not that he expected it all to be all right after, but he could hope…

Dried leaves shuffled. The currawongs fluttered and cawed, disturbed by the sudden gush of wind that blew past them and through the bony branches of these deathly trees, before they settled once more to watching over the graveyard and the lone house that stood there…  

# 

So much angst on such a pretty face.

Brown eyes glinting like he’s always mad with the world, the lot of it. Who wants to live when you can’t live at all? And working in a wormhole like this club with perverts and maniacs the fare of the day. Not to mention that he attracted most of them. That’s his  _unwelcome_ specialty. Like drinks and mixes had been his forte.

Constantly fending off bastards that want his flesh, he had been kept miserable. Terrible. Like he was a low-life of sorts. Well, he is now. An heir fallen from grace because he fell for the most unusual _redhead_ of a man. That was ten years ago and he’s still paying for it. He’s not even _gay_ for gods’ sake. Just got enticed, seduced by the idea. Crap.

Reality now is that he’s already _here_. And he may never get out. Another night at the **Corner**.

The usual patrons that have too much time in hand and too little to worry about but dancing and looking for someone to crash with for the night. Jidy hoped he was not going to get the same attention that he got yesterday. Almost cost him his job (that’s what they call it, mixing drinks and being required to wear all this greasy black paint on your face).

He had a reputation for always arguing with the customers, the manager had told him over curses and what-the-f*ck’s. And why wouldn’t he be if they were trying to get their hands on him, snaking their palms and running their fingers down into the most unwanted of places. Not that he wasn’t one who didn’t like to be touched. By women, yes. But coming from _them_. No way.

But then he was the one who got the warning, one more racket like this and he’s out of here as fast as he had been hired three days ago. Crap again. If he had better options, he _wouldn’t_ be here. The manager be thankful. He was selling them here like the drugs and the booze and the obscure music. If only he had a choice.

But he didn’t. And the night had just begun. Damned city urchins and their foul-smelling escorts. This wasn’t exactly the best there is in town but it was the quickest way to get work. Just as long as you can stand all that _unorthodox_ dealings. All the wrong trades in guns, drugs and sex with the same sex…call it a _pervy_ man’s club. Because that’s exactly what it was.

Jidy growled. _Please let me mix my tonics in peace tonight_ , he prayed to some god he didn’t know he even believed. And he polished the counter with the cloth, having splashed a _Purple Dino_ onto it in haste.

He watched the entire club begin to move in a tide of alcoholics and addicts. Drug-lovers lost in their own little world where, despite having their noses bleed as a result, they still came back for more.

Very few ladies…impressive for dressing less or dressing in a _complete lack_ of it. They all seem pretty in this tone of light. No flaw. Again, _very few_ ladies…if they were even ladies to begin with.

But then again who really cared? The touch must be good. Everyone else seemed to enjoy all this sin. Flesh and flesh rubbing, stroking, stoking fire. And to think his family were of the posh _conservative_ class, an elite corporation. They’d be crossing themselves multiple times if they’d seen this.

“Yo Jidy! Sub!” beamed his comrade, sliding the tray of all-alcoholic cocktails to his face. And before he could say no, the other had shot off right into the arms of his waiting lover.

“Damn Jake!” he growled again. “I’m not supposed to _wait_!!”

Jake laughed, hollering, “Well they won’t serve themselves…” and he slipped an arm around his companion.

How many hours will this _‘sub’_ be exactly, that will depend again on how well the couple’s evening went. Could be an entire shift. "Shit," Jidy cussed under his breath. Why does this **always** happen?

They have quota tonight and he was on the manager’s hot seat. It might as well be one nail to his coffin and he might as well lose this job. No choice. Thank gods the counter was only _semi-flooded_. The other less competent bartender (already half-drunk on duty) can handle the rest of the vultures.

Time for rounds then. He just heaved the tray up and on a palm then off he went, scowling at the little piece of vapor-drenched paper Jake _‘kindly’_ left him with the table numbers that needed them. Was the night going to be this routine? He just passed by the blond he pissed off yesterday and his group of _boys_. They gave him that look, eyeing him through the crowd, but Jidy was too busy to notice anything malicious. He was too busy dodging the usual drunks that want to table with him.

 _At least get through this night_ , he told himself. _Get through this night._

Last three tables. Jidy had found the bucket Jake left in a corner and heaved it on the tray. The water spilled, cold, the ice having melted. A few cubes rattled against the steel, swimming on the surface with the dark bottles clinking. Fragile things that could break and Jidy has broken quite a lot of them, both on the hard cement and on customers’ faces.

He grimaced at the hopeless wet stain down the side of his shoulder as he walked. He thought he was either a klutz or this night was just not going his way. As usual.

He scrambled for the towel slipped in one of his back pockets only to spill more of the freezing liquid—on floor and body, clanking the bottles, throwing the cubes overboard. When he finally got the thing he needed in his hand, he dropped it.

“Shit.”

“Ei watch it!” an intimidating man in his twenties scowled when some of the sloshing liquid caught his wrist. He looked at the young waiter with fierce, darkened eyes. A bird of paradise. Preened peacock much?

“Sorry,” a hasty apology over the other’s subtle murmurs and evident cussing, more like something to dismiss it, and Jidy had made it some few steps to the floor, away from trouble.

But just as he was about to land the tray on its respective table, some foreigner puked up on the seat, missing Jidy’s shoes by some centimeters, rattling the bucket enough to almost topple it as he sought to avoid the filth.

“Sorry…” came the groggy, dismissive apology and everyone on the table laughed like it was the funniest thing in the world.

Jidy left. Pissed. _Bastards…_

The evening was always a nightmare of some sort, cropped with wild music and strangers that thought they had the right to be rude and inappropriate, taking their pick, just because they were in a place like this and they could pay for it. Wonder when he’d wake up and be back in his room? Not much of a place, but it was quiet, punctuated by a few gunshots here and there, and the sound of the scheduled train that passed outside the window. That was okay. _Okay_ was good enough.

Jidy scratched his head.

“Lockers,” was the only thing he said to the other tender when he’d asked him something unimportant. Or was that another favour? Never mind. He wanted to clean up.

He rammed on the door with the full weight of his body, the knob stuck. They’d told the manager about getting the thing fixed but that was an ignored request, and every time they had to use this wretched room, they had to bang it open. The lockers were all right though, still useful. Jidy was thankful that at least the few things he owned and brought here were safe within. But for how long was that? He shook his head, miserably smiling to himself.

One more bang and he burst right in, and right in the middle of a couple in heat who’d found their way into the room, caressing in the dark. They hadn’t even heard him. Hadn’t even noticed until he was staring at them and they were staring up at him with bloodshot eyes. Sachets of drugs and neglected paraphernalia on the floor. Traces of a session just happened before they were banging away into each other.

“Could you please get out of here!?” Jidy groaned out loud, the obscure music breaking for a moment to give way to angry words.

The couple merely blinked, slow to react. Then they just picked up their stuff and headed out into the noisy fray, no words, no backwards glance. Jidy slammed the door behind them. A thought crept into his mind as he tried to steady his breathing. Outside, on the wall, a sign was posted: _Authorized personnel only. No entry._

Ironic.

#

Past eleven in the evening. The night has just begun. And _he_ could smell _them_ like the rotting trash of the city. Their thoughts, no matter how well they are concealed, he could hear as if they were whispered close into his ear. He could always _tune_ them out, but then again he just wanted to pick which sob story was more to his liking for the night and listened. He allowed them to caress his senses like a lover would, like the wind could as he sat there, pondering nonchalantly, hugging his knee and resting a chin there.

They could not feel him like he felt them of course. He bore no familiar and common _preternatural_ scent, no readable impression. Unless he wanted otherwise, he simply shrouded his own presence. It was rather he was on a much higher plain than these creatures. On the hierarchy in fact, a god of immortals. But that was something he cared less and less about through the years, and he was what? Ages old? This world doesn’t need his _kind_ of royalty. Neither did the world need the _other species_.

Chalice sighed.

His only brother, another Prince, had crept up on him and stood with that smile on his face. The results of Satire’s training, although he believed the boy was a natural at anything. Adaptable to any age or generation, to any power, any skill. He need not be taught. Hadn’t he survived for some century in a Spanish citadel without such guidance?

The boy, cocking his head to the side, asked in an innocent’s tone, “You’re not feeding?”  

Splendid raven hair that he’d inherited from his mortal mother and the eyes only their father had. Chalice had his mother’s eyes—those amethystine orbs, her red hair. He never inherited anything from their father. His lack of feeling maybe, but nothing else physical or apparent...

Chalice shifted to face the other, “We don’t need to feed young one.”

Which was true. They did not dwindle, nor do they deteriorate in the absence of blood. Though they did die a more horrible death.

He looked at his brother. Trust the youth to ask such questions. But these were one of those moments that made Chalice’s existence sufferable somehow. Life had been tolerable for him since Thiomo came. He’d searched for him a long time and now loved him dearly, the redhead wouldn’t know what will become of him if the other was not around.

Thiomo shrugged, “Might as well been human, you and I.”

He smiled again, and on this rare occasion, so did Chalice. But barely.

“Where’s Satire?”

“Preparing. He wants us to join him tonight. We’re visiting that club we went to yesterday…and that he says you might _develop_ a liking for it too.”

Chalice paused at that. Yes, Satire had always spied on him, had always kept watch very much like the sentient he was. He and Satire grew up to be brothers of some sort in the Kingdom of Old. The older Dhampir was his guardian since. But after a few centuries, after tragedies and false steps, misgivings that were forgiven but never really forgotten, the bond they shared was severed. A cliff stood between them now. He did not know how to get it all back. He wasn’t about to try. There were many things they just can’t and could never agree upon, the few they can needed Thiomo to be the mediator. The only sole and most powerful _common_ ground by whom Satire was still able to converse with Chalice.

Another sigh, this time, exasperated, “Have you chosen him child?”      

“For?”

The younger Prince was already in the right age to pick his consort. By what size, shape or specie, that was up to him. Though more or less, Dhampirs chose Dhampirs. Their race, after all, were protective of the blood they shared and were only quite few to sum. Very few were those who chose vampires. He could name _only one_. Vampires were weak, they need to feed…and they died under _Sol_ ’s embrace.

Satire would be a good choice for Thiomo because he was of Chalice’s parents: a mortal adopted and made a prince in the Old Palace in _Asya_. He survived the Kingdom’s fall, the Vampiric Court’s Great Scatter, and had lived through every known era and generation in history. He would survive this one even if Chalice did not. And he shall take Thiomo, whose life was so precious to the older Prince, through it with him. Even if it could mean that someday, this smiling, loving youth ended up the same substance that Chalice was. Cold and apathetic. The fate of all Princes perhaps?

“We can never really meet our demise,” he paused, feeling the vampires shift, the vampires hunt and seduce and kill, and his brows met briefly. “We’ll _just end_.”

Thiomo moved closer until he was looking down the side of the building where they were. The wind hummed a tune, ruffling everything except for them both. They were as inanimate statues in the dark of a moonless night. No stars to light the way. No clouds. Just nothing. Nothing.

“But we can die like they can die…right? Literally?” he motioned towards the city, peaceful for now.

No one knew what swarmed underneath them. It had been a cradle for bloodsuckers the news mistook for serial killers who were never caught but left dried corpses in backyards. No finesse. Vampires were indeed _no fun_.

Chalice nodded, “Sorrow.”

Thiomo looked at his brother’s face. The older Prince stared at the blankness below as he continued, “…it’s the only death I know of.”

#

It felt like he was some serial killer dragging the black bags, thought drifting to some insane idea that they somehow contained the remains of the dead chopped up so they’d fit the compactors. He shook it off. He was already imagining things, somehow managing to sniff a bit of Mary Jane here and there and that wasn’t at all impossible since they peddled it around like candy for the sweet tooth.

The music was fast-becoming a blur of words and instruments tied together with other auto tune-enhanced nonsense as the minutes ticked away. This was a _crazy_ night. He was almost doing everything now and the longer he did them, the more he became pissed, wanting to take a lighter in hand and set the establishment on fire. Again, he shook his head. Of course he couldn't do that. Then where else was he supposed to go? It was just another mad thought beginning to form.

Jidy stopped halfway towards the back exit of the club, collapsing heavily against the wall there. He loosened his collar, undoubtedly tired. Less than four more hours to go until shift end, thank gods. But like always, he still had to survive it.

He breathed in and out, in and out, desperately trying to take control of his muddled senses. A hand dragged through wet locks. He was shaking. Oh yeah, he missed dinner. Nothing decent here for the hungry stomach. Booze wasn’t exactly what you’d call food.

A commotion was building up somewhere near-entrance. Belatedly did he realize that there was this pause in the crowd and a sudden hush. A chorus of wonder. Curious. Jidy scratched his head again. What was that? He squinted cloudy eyes.

Some high class socialite with an entourage—who cared? The sex-craved patrons were excited, some dancing on their tiptoes, but then, once again, who cared? Surely not him. Jidy sighed. And he tugged at the bags again.

Just as he was cursing once more at how heavy the load was, he suddenly bumped into the wall which turned out _not_ to be the wall at all but a _person_. A tall, perfume-clad person. His mind shouted something close to _“dirty old bastard”_ but just as he was about to pick another fight with the guy, looking up, he stopped. _Stunned._ Definitely _no_ old bastard. On the contrary. He was a smooth _young man_. No, not just any young man. He was staring at what looked like a pale marble god drenched in neon light.

“I…I…” Jidy stammered.

Red hair! Red hair and gold eyes in this light…the stranger stared at Jidy as if he would actually read his thoughts. The younger of them suddenly drifting into past memories and a whirlwind of other dark things. He felt like he was being emptied. A jar toppled over, broken. What was happening? But the red hair!

Jidy was in a swirl. He almost fell. The stranger caught him with a prompt arm around the waist. When he’d come to, he was already being supported by the _redhead_ , steadied, that he had no choice but assume looking up again into the stranger’s face.

His lips moved very slowly, “You okay?”

The bartender nodded, unsure of it himself. He felt limp, weak all of the sudden, a rush of emotions that brimmed so suddenly on the surface. He thought it was the stress, but looking up, there went that weird pull again. The stranger was no doubt most…charismatic and intriguing, like he’d _seen_ him before but can’t remember _where_. Was this some magic made by the night air, the over-stuffed ambience of the club?

Jidy forced himself to his feet. He pushed the redhead away. He stumbled off without a backwards glance, the bigger part of himself saying it’s the drugs talking, coupled with the drinks he’d had earlier on account of some _friendly_ customer…

Chalice stared after him, his face a mask of some emotion, undefined. Satire quietly stood by, the smallest of smiles on his face, with Thiomo at his heels already acquiring much attention from the crowd.

“Pretty boy!” said the patrons, succumbing easy to the young one’s sugar-coated, pseudo-innocent flirting.

“Ah, the long lost love? Was that him, Sire?” asked Satire, his words very audible through the loud music and screams and the wails of ecstasy about.

He bent close to croon into Chalice’s ear. “Do you favour what you see now?”

Chalice ignored that with not an acknowledgement and walked off, dissolving into the dance floor, making way through as the individuals twirling and gyrating there just swayed aside, or were gently _pushed_ aside by some stronger will.

“Watch Thiomo,” small words only preternatural ears could hear.

Satire merely chuckled in amusement.

“Of course Prince.”


	2. What I Now Recall

Jidy puked. He spewed whatever contents his intestines had left onto the murky pools outside. The rain had just fallen, and he was drunk, literally drunk. He was possibly drugged too but then he did not know when that had happened. Definitely sick though, with his mind running like so many pages flipping. What the hell was happening to him? He was suddenly remembering those _‘things’_ …terrible snippets he thought he’d safely tucked behind mental walls…

Under the glare of a street lamp, he slumped back wiping his lips, staring up at the cruel light, the crude façade of the building like some watching shadow. He was drenched. The sky gave way to a gathering of clouds that spread across town in one gust, bringing with it another downpour as the umbrellas of the nocturnal came up to cover hurrying heads.

Jidy let himself be bathed. He didn’t care whether or not he’d catch a cold. He felt numb suddenly. He felt useless. He didn’t deserve this. He was working his ass off and he didn’t deserve this. The world owed him an apology.

He tried to move, turned to grasp at the post where he’d supported himself. Tears. Bitter tears. This far on the roads which led him nowhere. Where was the house? The palatial mansion? The gardens where he used to run along as a kid, chasing dreams before his father—some _sadistic_ zealot, another irony to his life—beat it out of him, locked him in the cellar for days.

He threw up again, his vomit mixing with the rest of the debris floating in the dirty waters of the gutter.

He felt sicker, faint, and about to fall, but hands caught him. He slowly stared up, squinting through the rain. A figure swam into his consciousness and he tried his best to focus on it. The face forming in front of him was that of one _grinning_ , a certain aura which emanated this intention of menace and promised hurt for hurt.

It was the blond he argued with yesterday.

He brought his friends along too. They’d sought him from the club and now had him cornered. Jidy had been caught off guard.

_Shit…_

“Hello gorgeous. Remember me?” came the voice, the knife in hand coming up to Jidy’s face and tracing a dangerous line down his chin, making the bartender freeze. “Care to dance?”

#

This was danger. He could feel his muscles ache and wail at every blow, his blood erupting out of himself as vessels were surely ruptured inside. The bat swung, and hit, not missing the parts of his body that it meant to beat into bloody pulps. His hair was pulled back, nearly ripped by the roots. He was forced to look up, to acknowledge who it was that was causing him so much pain, and who it was that wanted him to suffer. Was he going to die?

It seemed endless.

“This is for ignoring me,” said the blond. “And you’ll remember me even more after this.”

That was a promise. Jidy was too drowned in his own blood to even say anything. He felt numb in places, bleeding in places, bruised badly in places that after this, surely, he wouldn’t be able to walk. That is, if he still lives through the ordeal which he also doubted.

The rain. His mind suddenly thought of rain. The heavy pitter-patter on the roof he’d heard earlier as they dragged him in here, lost and blindfolded. Now he couldn’t hear anything. He was too much in pain that he couldn’t even hear his own screams; he’d pleaded earlier but that too had stopped. Or was he still pleading but he just couldn’t hear it?

No mercy. A muddled brain too slow to process anything but agony and torture. But he was aware of some things. He was aware of how he wanted to die now, to quit in the midst of this _hell_. Blindly he imagined what those accounts said about one’s experience before death, the phenomenon where your life flashed like slides before you saw the light. Then your soul gets swept up into nothing but peace and…and…

There’s none of that here.

The blond dragged him to a corner and cast him there. He flopped like a rag doll. Jidy felt some bones crack and muscles distort. He screamed.

“Yeah. You’ll scream some more in a bit, _sweetheart_ , that I tell you.”

The blond ripped what remained of his prey’s clothes off. Jidy, battered, knew exactly what was to happen. It was, after all, the thing that got him into this mess. In his confused, injured state he could feel hands moving, fingers touching…

_Yeah, now I’m going to die. But right after I get screwed…_

Somehow he saw this coming. He saw it end like this. Jidy wanted to swallow but his throat was too sore. His body itself had given up and he wasn’t struggling anymore.

_Do what you like you beast, make it swift and give me my peace…at least I deserve that!_

His mind drifted. As the blond groped him, drooling, appreciating his ruined state, Jidy saw flashes. He was treading somewhere between awake and sleeping, with a figure emerging in his mind. His mother out of control, seeing apparitions, screaming mad and shaking beside his bed. The four-poster and its folds of lace. Jidy was a little boy. He had been sick. His mother had been sicker than he was.

But that figure. Who was that stranger? Flames for hair. Faceless? Or simply because he can’t see it through the feverish haze.

“Who…who are you…?” asked the Little Master of the house.

Jidy blinked.

Back to reality already? He could hear himself breathe, hard, pulling in every draught of air he could. The figure did not vanish though. That stranger with fire in his hair. The faded face he couldn’t make up anything of. The apparition that killed his mother with nightmares that haunted her until she finally chose to end it.

He was seeing it now. Surely he was about to die. He’s seeing the same things as his mother. He’ll die a madman too. But there was something odd about it. Jidy’s instincts—if ever they were still functional—knew something was not quite right. It was too quiet. And wasn’t he about to be…? What was that? He couldn’t remember it anymore. Where he was, or why he was here. What time was it? The time, someone tell him the time!

But that figure was still in front of his tired, heavy eyes. It loomed over him like some spectre. The _ghost_ come to take him away.

_“Who…who…”_ he tried to ask again that same question he’d asked it many years ago.

But he had no voice for it. And he was tired beyond repair. He couldn’t even move a finger.

_Sleep…_

What was that? Jidy’s mind was too slow for thought but he heard that, or had it been fed into his brain and he accepted it voluntarily on account of circumstance?

He didn't care.

His body agreed to the suggestion. No blows came. No hideous dirty touches. But he did feel a hand. A smooth cold hand over a broken cheek and it made him flinch. Yet it slowly made his eyes close. His body gave up to its weakness easy. And in the company of a _ghost_ , he lost care of all memory and care, willingly falling into unconsciousness…

#

The Gaston Clan has been cast into utter chaos and scandal. The Lady of the House, a beauty known in these parts, had gone incurably mad. She claimed to have seen an apparition. Of an angel that neither spoke nor moved but watched her day and night.

She had ignored it before, but it was persistent in its intentions (no matter what they were) and neither slept nor disappeared, to be _forever_ in _her company_. And finally it had driven her to insanity.

The Lord of the House has lost all means to rectify the situation. He cannot control the raging impulses of his wife as she tore blankly through the estate, screaming prayers, curses, accusations of how everyone in their domicile was a devil there to torment her…

Just when they all thought things could never get worse, to the Clan’s further trouble, the Patriarch’s only son fell dangerously ill as well. He has been in bed with fever since the start of this entire ordeal and had regarded the world with vacant eyes, staring out the open window where, for him, ghastly curtains danced.

The Gaston Empire was fast-crumbling to bits as stockholders pulled out shares in fear that this crazed malady now tearing the family apart was _contagious_. The father must repent! It was a dark omen of evil! The Lady of the House had been found dead. She killed herself; a knife through her heart.

Now the son has inherited her crazy dreams. He has seen the ghost her mother has seen—the angel with fire in his hair appeared to Jidy in his dreams…

#

Jidy Gaston. Chalice has been eyeing him for a few years or so before he totally lost track or rather chose to lose track of him. One of those instances in history when the Prince decided to shed the pique of interest and wrap himself in apathy. Humanity calls it _‘falling out’_. He called it plain _boredom_ or a feeling close to that.

But then fate had a strange way with arranging reunions and rekindling old flames. A trick of luck. Probably. Chalice sighed. Or simply Satire’s doing. _More possibly._

No wonder he’d been so persistent with bringing their lot to that rundown club, even allowing Thiomo to extend the invitation he knew Chalice would not refuse. But then there’s something good with all this perhaps…

Jidy Gaston. The boy with big, clear eyes that looked at him so daringly that long time ago. He could smell _his_ blood. Even after all these mortal years, it was a shock how he could still recall how it tasted. So peculiar. That innocent little flavor that nourished even for just a bit his greedy heart that one night.

He had spared the child of course. A disappointment though that when he chose to linger, he tore his life apart…

The father, tired of these _‘sightings’_ , having lost his wife already to such delusions, had locked Jidy away in the cellar until he learned to be _‘normal’_. And the Dhampir’s _little one_ forgot him in the span of a month. Chalice by then had lost interest. Not that he couldn’t wait; he had an eternity to wait, even more than the boy’s lifetime. He just refused to look for Jidy, to open his mind to his presence. It can very well be correct to say he forgot whatever notions it was he’d had for the boy. His memory never did have much appetence for such, as he’d learned long ago that it served very little when you were immortal and undying. But now…

Chalice had spent the good part of the evening patching up Jidy’s naked body from within to without, his miraculous blood falling like the continuing rain, dripping richly from a deep bite the Prince had inflicted upon himself, from an obvious gash on his wrist.

Like some careful artist, he worked his magic on the other to heal the wounds he had obtained from the beating, and the bruises where the skin had been broken. Yet for those that were not, a generous helping of his blood into the younger man’s mouth was the better alchemy, passing the fluid via an open kiss as the Dhampir gently topped the latter on the bed, the other’s skin healing and bones mending slowly while leaving Jidy to dream vivid dreams that naturally came with the intake.

He also grazed Jidy’s body with his hands, squeezing _places_ , touching, making the unconscious one arch from time to time while his hands blankly grasped the sheets…Chalice did this as if to arouse a familiarity that had been lost somewhere in time, finding the other’s response to be so amazing, the Prince seemed unable to get enough…

Yet he did not go _that far_. There would be time enough. Neither had he dared read his thoughts, to see those images that he knew to be part of their old memories together. A bit of respect for the wounded one’s peace though years back he’d so violently invaded it, heartless younger _tyrant_ that he was.

He’d always treated _humans_ like puppets and porcelain dolls. Like so many gnats that fall by the wayside, yes. But Jidy. Why he cared about him, he didn’t really have an idea. Could it be because he was aware that this beautiful mortal hadn’t forgotten him at all? That Jidy had retained some sob fascination growing up with dashing strangers of red hair? The reason why he ran off with that bastard one time, who pawned him and used him for ransom.

His father of course had bought Jidy back, but then exiled him because of the shame it had caused. The _additional_ scandal. His old man was now a masquerading devout who’s seen the religious as a recourse to redeem his lost reputation. What a joke…

Thiomo sat by watching, cocking a head to the side every once and a while, half curious, half guessing. He was a moppet abandoned comfortably on the huge furniture, could be a doll there, looking at his brother who was just as eerie in his stillness as he stopped sometimes to stare down at this Jidy persona.

Whatever dreams there were, the _younger_ Prince knew Chalice had left alone to this mortal. Thiomo on the other had no interest to peek either, but stole a bit of information from time to time about the stranger, wanting to know _exactly what_ it was that intrigued his brother like so. Or why he’d come to this man’s aid when he needed it, ripping through the latter’s captors in that wanton fashion, defiantly gorging in blood as he'd never done in ages. All this he did with such speed, Thiomo was admittedly blinded for an instant. Chalice’s power. He never really used it that much but he used it then hadn’t he?

This made the younger Prince sigh. He frowned a bit and said, “I don’t understand why you stare at him like that.

“You’d kissed him before in his youth. Are you won’t to kiss him again?”

Chalice gave him no reply, but was intensely in thought now, sensing a small prick somewhere inside himself. How long had it been?

Thiomo rolled his eyes and shook a head, “It’s hopeless,” cradling his chin.

His brother should just fuck him now and be done with it. 

#

The same dreary day. The same routine all over again but somehow Jidy hadn’t noticed. For fact he was unable to pay much attention to anything at all. His mind was drifting.

Orders came by the pile. His comrades were all in a fuzz, but he’d slipped off, through the dance floor, blankly walking through the heap, seemingly unable to hear any sound, the _sinking_ feel in his chest colouring the atmosphere in varieties of gray…slow, dull, lethargic. Even the dancers looked like they’d come from some _woebegone_ twilight movie as he passed them by, finding himself outside, staring listlessly up against a reddening sky, wondering if it was going to rain again...of what had _really_ happened yesterday.

He could not remember most of it. There were snippets but those were just random things. But he did recall the flaming hair, the face it framed. It was the apparition he’d seen as a boy. He could remember _him_ now…

“You’re still here aren’t you?”

He slumped against the alley's wall, feeling that strong, magnetic presence nearby. He was right on the tab, as  _the other_ stood there, a shadow in the darkness. He’d come alone to see Jidy.

“I am here. Has and will be,” his voice came with a serenity like still waters.

Jidy didn’t remember it to be this cool and was fixed at him for a moment. Then…

“You killed my mother.”

The Prince inched closer, lifting a hand whose fingers touched the side of Jidy’s face. Such cold fingers. Just as cold as when, in his bed, this _‘creature’_ lulled him to sleep with a magic song.

“She was in the way.”

“Why?”

Was there a spell being cast? Jidy felt the tiredness fall heavy upon his shoulders. His eyes could only open halfway and he can see a little smile play on the redhead’s lips, almost invisible.

Chalice looked into his _mortal love_ , whispering with his mind’s voice that no, there was no magic here, merely what Jidy had felt for him long ago, now again made obvious…

“There will come a time that your _wants_ will overpower you, and you must do what it takes to have them,” the Prince kissed him on the forehead. That was warm, Jidy closed his eyes. “And I wanted you.”

He was a confused being looking up into the eyes of a killer, he knew this. But so impossible not to give in, not to be caught in this tender embrace he’d denied himself ever since the fear of being locked up alone had pushed him to forget. In fact, he didn’t actually care about his mother before, and certainly not now.

Nonsensically, he cussed under his breath. Why does this always happen? He was afraid of it; the sensation of being this close to the _man_ , if ever he were a man whom he may as well be not.

But he needed it. That _feeling_. This ghost had always made him feel he belonged, at least, to someone who made him feel that he did. On some point.

“I…never knew your name—“

“Chalice.”

It had been like _this_ those years. When Jidy had awaken to the presence of the so-called _spectre_ of the house, during the wake of his mother, dressed in his most appropriate black for her, when everyone else was busy mourning, he’d embraced for some solace a beautiful monster.

Chalice.

So that was his name?

He closed his eyes, feeling a smooth palm glide across his neck before the inevitable pierce through tender skin like daggers. It would have made him scream. But it was more of a delight than pain, hearing the agonizingly slow sucking, his blood passing in small portions from him to the other, and it had him paralyzed, aroused. His hands slipped where he’d sought to lace them through so much red hair and his head fell back, giving his feeding _predator_ even more access to open skin.

The Dhampir moved his lips. His tongue flicked. So sweet…Jidy exhaled, relaxing more into the feeling, his eyes had completely closed, his arms fallen. He’d been enslaved by it again after so many years…

More blood. More ecstasy running through Jidy’s brain, nothing but a golden rush into his organs and when he opened his eyes once more, he was blind, seeing nothing. It wasn’t the end though. Jidy felt he wasn’t going to die tonight. This was but the beginning of it all again.

Chalice watched, the taste of _his_ mortal’s blood beating down his throat as he carefully took draughts, slowing his sucking to a pace that he enjoyed as if he wasn’t handling a man but a boy once again. The body beneath him arched up, of no significant weight despite having grown more in terms of muscles, finely-chiseled, appealing, making the Prince feel greedy again…

For Chalice, it was a pleasure to carry this burden once more. He was aware how deeply he’d felt for this _mortal_ that it was a love that came only next to Thiomo, his brother.

Long ago he’d wanted to win Jidy over, imagined how it would be in fact if the other would grown up to be _his_. He wanted Jidy all to himself; after this, _that_ is exactly what will happen.

Moving a hand down willing loins, the Prince squeezed possessively upon the other’s heating organ, stroking through denim jeans only to discover how Jidy had become so aroused, wanting much of this touch, to be fed upon willingly. It had always been an hypnotic drug.

The hard response was a sure indication that Chalice has succeeded even if it had taken him so long. Jidy was his and his covetous heart was more than just satisfied…

#

Satire watched from a distance as the older Prince guided his quarry off the alley and into a waiting car, that boy named Jidy drunk on the pleasure of this reunion, drunk on Chalice’s presence that had once again ensnared him despite all the years that had passed.

He could imagine it now, the mortal would look even more beautiful in refineries, tucked in the redhead’s possessive arm, the bite marks that would be on his skin a permanent sign of the other’s ownership.

The older Dhampir smiled knowingly to himself as Thiomo sought to understand the situation. But in the end, the young one just shrugged. What was there to contemplate over about? He only had but one issue...

“He’s _mortal_ ,” frowned the raven-haired Prince.

“I know,” said Satire, quietly calculating. This would be the start of it. Chalice might now return to feeling. He has been waiting for this for so long... “But he’s worth it.”

~*~

[Notes: (wikia) A Dhampir in Balkan folklore is the child of a vampire and a human. The term is sometimes spelled  _dhampyre_ ,  _dhamphir_ , _dunpeal_ or  _dhampyr_. Dhampir powers are similar to those of vampires, but without the usual weaknesses. Dhampirs are supposed to be adept at detecting and killing vampires.]


End file.
